Merely Silver
by sandsdream
Summary: Only Mr. Todd's razors have the privilege of getting close to him. Perhaps Mrs. Lovett can use those pieces of silver to her advantage. A humorous take on one-sided Sweeney/Lovett. Or rather, Sweeney/Lovett/razor. Written in February 2008.


Standing in the corner, nearly invisible, was almost always the best place to be when in the company of Mr. Todd. Mrs. Lovett knew this; it was a bit like an unspoken rule, one you would soon learn if you hovered around him enough. And Mrs. Lovett had most definitely done her share of hovering. Rules, though, were almost always the most satisfying when irreparably broken. Take that one, for example, which alleged that members of high society were always superior to those of the working class; well, all those fancy lawyers and bankers were serving her, a simple baker, now. More than merely satisfying, it was proving most profitable to turn such rules on their heads.

Hands on her hips, Mrs. Lovett stood in the corner of the attic room above her shop. For now, it wasn't too terribly unpleasant to obey the rules. In that corner, Mrs. Lovett looked out the window and watched their quarry wander by on the street below. Soon, she considered smugly, a good third of them would be in her bakehouse.

And she listened to the lovely sounds of them chattering down there on the cobblestones, and of birds squawking miserably in the birdseller's cage as he passed by, and lastly, on top of it all, of Mr. T sharpening his razors. No beautiful cacophony would be complete without that.

Mrs. Lovett cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and thought dreamily to herself, _This…this is going to be a very good day._

For all he cared, he was alone in that room.

It had a hypnotic effect on Sweeney Todd, sharpening the edges of his razors. Soothing, almost, until he would inevitably begin to drift away and become consumed by recollections of another time. Often he would become consumed by the want of it, the desire for rubies, rubies spilling over the blade, trickling down and settling into the grooves of the carved handle, until eventually it would run into his cuff; and only then would he be confident that he had cut deeply enough.

But there was nothing could be done about that until some hapless Londoner decided to drop in for a shave.

He snapped the razor closed, then unfolded it again compulsively. Watching the light dance on its newly stropped edge, he thought of a job well done—all the jobs well done, all the work it had helped him to do. It was more beautiful now than ever, just as he knew it would become, just as he knew the very instant he'd made his promise to it. He'd promised that they would do wonders together, and oh, how they had.

"It's more beautiful than I had ever dreamed…," he murmured, completely entranced. "Now that it has dripped precious jewels…"

It was clean and silver again now, but its shapeliness and allure were not diminished. He knew of all its deeds; he had guided it in them, every single one, at times almost as if it was _he_ aiding _it_ in the task, and not the other way around.

Slowly, in a kind of stupor, he raised his arm and placed the flat of the razor to his lips. Sweeney Todd closed his eyes, with a feeling of divine accomplishment, and marveled in its grace… It was as if the Good Lord had sent it to him, had anticipated his present need for it and guided him to make the decision to purchase the razors so many years ago. They had been expensive, but so perfect for him, and now all his work was made possible by the grace of their blades.

"It _is _a beautiful sight, innit?"

A loud, coarse voice interrupted his reverie—quite savagely, it seemed to him.

Then suddenly, the pressure of the blade against his lips increased, and the metal began pushing at him rather than resting there lightly.

Startled beyond belief, he opened his eyes and beheld Mrs. Lovett's face, less than an inch from his own.

She had leaned forward and kissed the razor too, had probably raced over to him seconds after seeing him do it, and managed to do so while his eyes were still closed and before he stopped.

The only thing separating their lips was the blade.

Thank God for the blade, he thought, eyes widening in horror.

He jerked his head backwards, away from both the object of his affection and the woman.

Mrs. Lovett stood beaming, gazing adoringly into his mournful black eyes, her hands folded innocently behind her back.

Panicked, he flipped the blade over in his hand—one side was smudged. His own lips had left no print, but hers, apparently, had. He held the razor out at arm's length, as far away from himself as possible, glancing around frantically for something to wipe it with. In the confusion, he couldn't seem to recall where he'd left the strop or any rags. Oddly, the sight of her lip print on the metal seemed more distressing than any amount of customers' blood.

Still smiling, Mrs. Lovett spun on the heel of her lace-up boots, hiked up her skirts, and bounded down the stairs to her shop.

Deciding it was the fastest way to get it clean, Mr. Todd wiped the side of the blade on the leg of his striped trousers. He was still rapidly scrubbing it down when his next customer, and older man, stepped inside.

He hadn't even heard the bell. When the man cleared his throat, Todd spun around, looking rather harried. The man appeared to grow dubious upon seeing the crazed expression of the barber.

"WhatcanIdoforyoutodaysir?" Mr. Todd blurted out, all of it running together like one great, long word, in his attempts to set the man at ease. It wouldn't do to have his customers getting suspicious, certainly not.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"She nearly _touched _me," Mr. Todd muttered to himself, in a mix of shock and horror, as he swung his arm back and plunged the blade into the man's throat. As tepid blood spurted from the fresh wound, splashing him across the forehead and over his white forelock, Sweeney shuddered at the thought of Mrs. Lovett kissing the razor back at him. As he tore his way along the man's neck, he was reminded of the time that Mrs. Lovett, down in her shop, was sauntering past the chair where he was seated, carrying a jar of jam which had just _happened_ to tip over the very instant she was crossing in front of him, spilling the sticky substance all over his lap. For some reason, Mrs. Lovett's odd behaviour with the razor had reminded him of that, and of the very strange way she had insisted she wipe it all off him with her bare hand.

Thick red liquid splattered across the bridge of his nose as he contemplated Mrs. Lovett's considerable weirdness. That smear on the razor, all her fault—he grimaced again to remember it. Well, he was glad that was over and that he was on to pleasanter business.

-o-o-o-o-o-

"I nearly _touched_ him," Mrs. Lovett squealed with glee, propping her chin up in her hands, elbows on the counter before her, as she listened cheerfully to the typical symphony of London: the sounds of a carriage rumbling by on the cobblestones, of a customer gurgling and shrieking upstairs, of a town crier announcing the news, and, best of all, of Mr. T's gorgeous leather boot stamping on the lever that tilted the chair back.

_That thin little piece o' silver was nothin', really_, she thought. It was practically like kissing him.

Yes, she thought blissfully as the body smashed into stone and the sound of Mr. T sharpening his razor filtered down once more, and she remembered the intimate feeling of silver between their lips; this was shaping out to be a very good day indeed.


End file.
